Slow Dancing in a Burning Room
by ButterflyRogue
Summary: If you don't have the courage to love, don't let anyone fall in love with you. Because, losing what you love is the hardest, but loving what is already lost is even harder... RLNT. A series of moments.
1. your love is a verb

Based off some prompts I've picked up a while ago from livejournal.

RLNT, naturally (as if I write anything else in this fandom). Sometime around HBP, summers pre and post included. Because I don't seem to be capable of writing a happy R/T story. Come to think of it, it's actually lucky JKR hacked them off in the end, lest I'd have them tortured to oblivion in various sequels and whatnot, the poor dears. Seriously, I have a majorly distorted perception of their relationship (and relationships in general, it would seem, as they are my favourite HP couple).

Inspired a great deal by jadeddiva's awesome fics here at FF net.

I really tried keeping them under 500 words (the "long" ones went through so many revisions, I've lost count). But seeing that I can't write anything nice and concise, everything shorter than 1000 words is quite a feat.

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><p><strong>prompt<strong>** 01:**** letter**

Word count: 418

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><p>Four-letter word.<p>

d-e-a-d.

A word relating to him on so many levels. An awful expression that had just claimed another victim, stripping him from yet another thing he held dear, leaving him virtually with nothing at all. Not that he was a stranger to that feeling. He could recall, quite clearly, a period when he had felt just as desperate-maybe even more so. He had feared then, that the darkness would consume him completely. He had felt as if everything was lost, as if there was no reason to live anymore. It was difficult to pull himself together afterwards. He had almost forgotten who he was-who was he trying to be-blinded by grief and rarely quite sober at the time, he had almost run off and joined the first werewolf pack out there, eager for a chance of having an early death himself. It was all a blur, really, those days...

All that is stopping him going down the same road this time is _her_. It disgusts him a bit, actually, this lack of all-consuming grief he thinks he _should_ be feeling. But he can't really help it. She is like a silver pool of blinding light: twinkling, radiating, pulling him in, the way she laughs reverberating through his memory (_because__ she__ doesn__'__t__ really __laugh __much__ these __days, __though __her __smiles-shy __and__ guilty__ somehow-are__ just __as__ blinding __to __him_). She is like a lifeline, unyielding and dignified even in her grief. He could so easily delude himself, reach for that little bit of happiness he felt with her (_his __best __mate __is__ dead,__ for__ heavens__' __sake,__ he__ is__ not__ supposed __to __be __happy-not __now,__ not __ever!_). In any case, he couldn't. There were certain reservations, boundaries he shouldn't cross.

And yet, sometimes he couldn't quite help it. He'd purposely forget himself and call her Nymphadora in front of everyone and Dora silently to himself and she'd roll her eyes-out of habit, really, her scowl more of a smile than anything-wordlessly admitting she actually liked it when he called her that and he'd be shamelessly pleased with secretly being given the privilege of using the name no one else was allowed to. Because Tonks is awkward, impersonal, sounding ugly and abrupt like a bad onomatopoeia; it doesn't _feel_ right. And the fact he's spent so much time poring over her name is enough of an alarm as it is, because he shouldn't-_mustn__'__t_-think about her so often, in such a way.

Four-letter words.

l-o-v-e.

d-o-r-a.

He starts calling her Tonks.

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><p><em>...if the world would fall apart<em>

_in a fiction-worthy wind_

_I wouldn't change a thing now that you're here..._

Incubus - Here in my room


	2. just a momentary thing

****prompt 02: darling****

Word count: 536

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><p>They have both appeared in the same alley tonight, on their way to an Order meeting.<p>

She was quite embarrassed to face him, after she had so stupidly deluded herself he might be attracted to her (but they were dancing at the very brink of flirtation for months, she could have _sworn_; the way he would smile, the way he would _look_ at her sometimes...) and spilled the contents of her heart in a clumsy flurry of words and bashful smiles. His shocked expression was something she'll never be able to forget. He could have even spared her the elaboration (a bit begrudgingly given, though, he couldn't quite bring himself to meet her eyes-then again, he was a kind person by default, unaccustomed to hurting people).

She made it a point afterwards to quickly dive out of room every time he would enter.

Well, she knew she couldn't avoid him forever. With a pang of guilt, she noted his discomfort as well. If she hadn't been so foolish, they'd be greeting each other cordially and walking to the scheduled location together. She'd be filled with painful longing, sure, knowing friends was all they are ever going to be, but his company alone would have been enough-more than enough in comparison to the near strangers they have become over the past couple of weeks. As his love she never had to begin with, losing his friendship was what she was the most heartbroken about.

Managing a strained hello, she kept staring intently into a loose thread hanging from the cuff of his trousers. An unpleasant, torturous silence settled upon them, neither quite sure how to act in this particular situation. Taking a subconscious step backwards, she disturbed a mound of trash piled there, several crates tumbling down with a clatter. Before she even had a chance to curse her inability to walk properly, something large and heavy rammed into her and, as she stumbled, another round object slammed her hard across the head. Mad-Eye's damned enchanted dustbins.

"Tonks?" he exclaimed in alarm. Searing pain was flashing through her skull, she was momentarily unable to open her eyes or stand up straight. Then someone was holding her close, trying to hoist her upwards, a warm hand caressing her cheek and a barely distinguishable whisper drifting to her ears. "_Dora, darling..._"

Her eyes snapped open, staring in wide, questioning astonishment straight into his. Tender concern etched into his face paled to mortification of what he obviously didn't mean to say out loud. But, oh, the way he was looking at her just a moment ago-there was no mistaking it! He released her at once (she certainly proved stable enough to stand on her own, vigour and something very much like senseless joy rushing back into her). Tearing away from her, as if physically hurt by her presence, he darted out, into the street. She stared blankly after him, her mind reeling in this newfound realization. And, a bile rising in her throat, drowning that pitiful little whiff of happiness, she was suddenly unable to tell which felt worse. Thinking he did not return her feelings, or knowing he loved her just the same, but decided to let her go.

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><p><em>...it's at the point of breaking down<em>

_'cause there's nothing left to say_

_I think you waste your sweetness_

_I think the whole thing blew away...!_

Something Happens – Momentary Thing


	3. no doubt in my mind

******prompt 03: language******

Word count: 486

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><p>Was it really so impossible for a smart, talented and altogether rather attractive young woman to fall in love with a werewolf? Clearly, a belief many found entirely plausible. Including Remus himself.<p>

He had made his biggest misjudgement then, completely underestimating her wonderful, un-prejudiced nature. Of course _he_ was quite charmed by her, and quite early into their acquaintance, too. How could he not be? She was intelligent and interesting, laughed easily, spoke passionately and preferred to value people by their actions rather than their appearances. From the very moment she had found out about his lycanthropy, there was not a flicker of repulsion in her eyes, no forced tolerance or concealed discomfort at his presence, not even the slightest indication of resolved politeness that would wear off the moment he'd be out of sight, to be replaced with an expression of repugnance or disdain. She had simply seen it as something that just happened to be, another one of his features such as the colour of his eyes. One could easily see the appeal such a person would have to a man shunned and mistreated for the majority of his life.

With her, he could again talk freely, even joke about his condition, enjoying the wonders of unfeigned, sincere acceptance.

He should have put some distance between them the moment he realized his feelings started to go beyond merely friendly. But surely, there was no way she would ever look at him like _that_! So, why not allow himself this little pleasure, why not be selfish for once and remain in her vicinity whenever possible, listening to the sound of her voice, watching that pretty smile and imagining that maybe, were the circumstances different, she'd smile like that only for him. There was no harm in wishful thinking, no matter how impossible it seemed, was it? Of course, the dashed fantasies would leave him the only one suffering, once reality would strike. Or so he thought, so he firmly believed because how could someone like her-_anyone at all_-possibly love a hideous _creature_ like him! He should have known better.

He had a wild urge to run away now. He had been foolish enough to let her in too close, but this is where he had to draw the line. His life was a difficult one. He would be going against his better judgement, against his own conscience, to condemn her as well to social rejection and marginalization. Voice firm, but his body language telling a rather different story, he approached Dumbledore about the underground mission they had talked about some weeks ago. Every part of his essence screamed against it, but this was the right thing to do-for the Order, for her, for everyone (_everyone but him_, she had said). Not leaving space for arguments, he turned to go, suppressing a shudder threatening to shake his entire frame. Dumbledore sighed as he watched him leave.

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><p><em>...the storms are raging on the rolling sea<em>

_and on the highway of regret_

_though winds of change are blowing wild and free_

__you ain't seen nothing like me yet...__

Adele – Make You Feel My Love


	4. something always brings me back to you

********prompt 04: sharp********

Word count: 499

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><p>The shock of waking up to her entire appearance entirely unremarkable, had long since worn off. The frustration of not being able to modify her natural imperfections into something more acceptable still tinged somewhere within her, but she tried not to show it anymore. Her mousy-haired, murky-eyed, crooked-nosed, uneven-teethed reflection didn't even look annoyed.<p>

Dragging herself back into the bedroom, she carefully side-stepped a hand mirror she'd dropped the other night and had not yet cleaned up. It was not badly shattered, but the pieces were jagged and sharp-edged. She really needed to take care of it. It was dangerous to have it lying around.

The sun was bathing the room in iridescent glow. Yet her eyes focused on one thing only. Pure light seemed to have condensed in one of the corners, a tiny rainbow reflecting in a large silver wolf.

It didn't surprise her as much as she thought it would when, instead of a sprightly little ferret, the stately wolf leaped from the end of her wand for the first time. It was more of a shock when he started coming back. A patronus was but a reflection of its caster, supposed to do their bidding and then disappear. Her wolf would come back even after its task was completed, as if it had a mind of its own.

_Her wolf_. Somehow, she liked the sound of that. This magical imprint of her soul had changed its shape to further express its yearning, its deepest desire. It saddened and comforted her at the same time. She had no idea why it kept coming back, yet, somehow, she was grateful it did. Even though, with each appearance, it would only deepen the wounds his rejection and subsequent departure left.

Suddenly finding it difficult to breathe, she slid to the floor. The wolf padded soundlessly towards her, its strangely beautiful head nuzzling her hand. The feeling was peculiar, like her hand was floating in pleasantly warm water.

_You've such tender hands_, he'd told her once. _Small and delicate. Like a flower. With petals in different colours_. She could still remember the exact shape of his smile as he traced each pink painted nail. She laughed along, told him he was being ridiculous. He'd responded he somehow didn't mind, not with her. It was the most romantic thing she'd ever heard.

Not paying attention, she pressed her hand against the broken mirror at her side. One of the shards had made a deep cut. Barely even wincing, she observed the injury with interest. Blood was running over a large palm, through long, clumsy fingers looking awkward, really, rather than elegant, glued to ridiculously tiny wrists. _Tender hands_.

The silver wolf disappeared as the first drops of blood seeped into the carpet. Her hand was throbbing by now. A tear slid down her face. Then another and another and a few more. And she knew that no physical pain could ever measure to the one he inflicted to her heart.

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><p><em>you hold me without touch<em>

_you keep me without chains_

_I never wanted anything so much_

__than to drown in you love and not feel your reign__...__

Sara Bareilles – Gravity


	5. we're like crystal we break easy

**********prompt 05: everytime**********

Word count: 549

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><p>He tried to attend an Order meeting every once in a while, usually following a full moon, when the rest of the pack was scattered about and recovering. Seeing the familiar faces was comforting. Seeing <em>her<em> was, well, contradictory. He desired and feared it at the same time.

He'd be early, up in the front, the good boy, the star pupil, almost unnaturally attentive to each word spoken. She'd show up late and linger in the back, close to the door, staring dejectedly ahead. He'd glance her way every once in a while. He never could quite decide whether it made him sad or relieved that he never caught her looking back.

She'd approach him later, tentatively. It would begin as a neutral conversation. But, of course, nothing was ever neutral between them. It would always turn to his mission (_pointless and suicidal_) or him (_obnoxious and stubborn_) and his refusal of their nonexistent relationship (_stupid because she loves him and he loves her and that should be enough_). Sometimes both.

It would never really escalate to a full-fledged fight, though. He thinks they're both a bit scared of quite literally falling apart at the sound of loud tones and harsh words. He'd try to keep calm but his composure would rapidly fade to irritation as her hissed remarks would continue to interrupt his carefully elaborated explanations. She would grow bolder by the second, her eyes retrieving that spark he loved so much, even in such moments when it was posed against him. He'd consider walking away then. By all means, he should have already learned to avoid such confrontations. But he couldn't even pretend anymore that he didn't humour her just to see her eyes alight with passion again. Even if it left both of them shattered and more damaged than ever.

_She_ would decide, instead, when it was enough and leave, back straight and head high; leave him struggling for breath, as if he was the one being rejected, not the other way around. Though, in a way, he was. Ultimately, he was rejecting himself. He never voiced it, though. _Noble Remus_, he knew she'd jeer to that, face twisted in a sneer, desperate not to lose her patience with him and failing every time. _No self-pity, entirely self-hate_.

Sometimes, he wondered if she knew how much he wanted to reach out to her then, grab her hand and ask her to stay, to hold on to her and never let her go. He wondered if she knew how hard it was for him not to.

He stood to leave, resolved to be the one with the final word this time. She had slipped into the argumentative mode earlier than usual and managed to keep her voice steady even though her gaze, stubbornly fixed upon a spot about a foot over his left shoulder, indicated she was holding back tears. His hand had accidentally brushed hers and she grasped his fingers loosely, timidly. He held the contact. _Foolish_, he would berate himself later. _Thoughtless_. _Unnecessary_. _Lupin, you pathetic, sentimental fool_.

"All you have to do is ask," she whispered, the tone of her voice a tender caress to his ear. "You know that, Remus."

And then she was gone, left him speechless, breathless, like she did every time.

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><p><em>I don't know what to say<em>

_you don't care anyway_

_I'm a man in a rage_

_with a girl I betrayed_

_here comes love, it's like honey_

_you can't buy it with money_

_you're not alone anymore_

_you shock me to the core, you shock me to the core_

New Order – Crystal


	6. and you know that we're doomed

************A/N - ************I just wanted to shout out a big THANK YOU to everyone who's taken time to read these drabbles, even of they didn't leave a comment. I really hope you enjoyed them. Also, a shout for **corelliakid **who's reviewed every chapter so far - I really appreciate it! :)********************

I also wanted to apologize for the delay, the original plan was to post a drabble per week, but I've been busy for the past month and I didn't have time to update.************  
><strong>**********

************prompt 06: faultiness************

Word count: 562

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><p>"I do hate it when you smoke."<p>

She doesn't even budge at his remark and lights a cigarette with the tip of her wand.

"I hate many things myself," she exhales slowly and the smoke twirls and spirals towards the ceiling. She gazes at it somewhat mesmerized, marvelling at the curious beauty of it.

They've managed keeping a rather pleasant interaction tonight, surprisingly. Whether it was a silent agreement to avoid Molly Weasley fussing over them or something else, she couldn't quite tell. An improvement, in any case, since she had (she was quite proud of herself, actually) made it a point to ignore his presence nearly as much as he did hers. Kind of a reverse psychology sort of thing. He had his pattern: each of his words strategically designed to hurt her, in hope of driving her away. So maybe, if _she_ acted the same, he'd see what it was like and... No, that was just the sort of thing he'd be pleased about, the stupid, self-sacrificing git.

He shifts in his chair and raises the newspaper higher so that it obscures most of his face. It's ridiculously tight-set, she thinks, a hard, unfeeling mask he forced it into. She half-expects to see skin cracking along his jaw line from the sheer rigidity of it.

"Well, then?" she mutters distractedly, finally tearing her eyes away from his profile.

"Excuse me?"

"You're just _dying_ to lecture me on how ugly a habit smoking is," meeting his eyes, for the first time in _months_, still has that knee-wobbling effect it used to. She looks away nervously, hoping he didn't notice. Stupid of her, actually-he notices _everything_.

He lowers the paper carefully before responding. "You smoke for the wrong reasons."

She raises her eyebrows in question.

"In fact, a cigarette every once in a while doesn't even qualify you as an actual smoker," he starts to elaborate. "Wizards usually prefer pipes so you feel very sophisticated when you light one of these over a cup of coffee up in the office. Or, currently, here in Arthur's den, with all of these Muggle gimcracks and mismatched furniture, it's an extremely bohemian thing to do. It's pretentious, actually. It doesn't suit you."

She stares at him for a moment before taking another drag. If he hates her smoking, she hates it when he tries to analyze her. An annoying habit of his she used to find endearing.

"Wow, Remus, you've totally missed your profession," she comments dryly. If she lets him go on, he'd probably deduce fairly quickly she'd lit this one just to get a reaction out of him. "There are people who'd actually pay for hearing crap like this."

The rigid mask of his face softens into something akin to sadness. She mistakes it for pity and looks away, cursing the damned smoke for making her eyes water. Her throat tightens and she despises herself for not being able to help it. The rustling to her left tells her he had dived back behind his paper and that it's safe to move her head again.

"Well, nobody's perfect," she mutters eventually. "You deliver god-awful psychoanalytical speeches and I smoke without a proper excuse." She stubs the cigarette out a little too aggressively, and stands up to leave, both of them knowing this particular fault now finally had a good enough reason behind it.

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><p><em>I'll make the most of all the sadness<em>

_you'll be a bitch because you can_

_you try to hit me just to hurt me_

_so you leave me feeling dirty_

_'cause you can't understand_

John Mayer – Slow Dancing in a Burning Room


	7. that place you can't forget

******************Happy holidays to everyone!**

**************prompt 07: saviour**************

Word count: 446

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><p>"D'you have a woman out there, Remus?" someone had asked him the other night. He'd responded negatively, immediately and without hesitation. Being cautious, of course, as a first. You don't just go to a pack of werewolves and start counting off your loved ones. Secondly, she wasn't even <em>his<em> to begin with, regardless of the complicated state of their "relationship" (in lack of a better word). At last, he knew what the others meant under the term "woman" and even if she were his, he'd never allow her mentioned in such a context.

She was constantly on his mind, though. The thought of her loving him, waiting for him, soothed and disturbed him at the same time. It's what kept him going, her loving smile and tender gaze like a beacon in the distance, something to hold on to in the darkness that surrounded him. So even though he kept telling her to move on, it was done so half-heartedly, so unwillingly. He couldn't expect her to take him seriously, being like that. It was no wonder she was so persistent still. And the thought that scared him the most, was this realization that he actually wanted having her keep coming back to him.

And still, he had trouble accepting he didn't have to live his life like this, in obscurity and isolation. He refused to believe she just might be his salvation. Every monster is supposed to be vanquished in the end of a fairy tale, it's only right. It isn't entitled to a happily ever after.

But she wasn't much of a damsel in distress to begin with. She was strong, she was self-sufficient, she didn't need a knight in shining armour to save her from anything. _She_ was the true hero of their story. Persistent and true to herself and with more guts than most men he knew. More guts than him, in any case.

That was the continuous contrariety of her that somehow never ceased to fascinate him; layers and layers of brazenness and nerve and attitude smothering all that is delicate and feminine because _heaven forbid_ anyone should see her as such. But he knew better. He was acquainted with the meek, gentle woman she could be as well. And he yearned for that woman more and more with each passing day, yearned for every single part of her wonderful persona.

Yes, Remus Lupin did have a woman "out there". A woman he loved more than himself (though, that wasn't much of a feat anyway), more than anything. A tough, brave woman who didn't need anyone standing up for her. And a woman he was determined to save nevertheless – from himself.

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><p><em>she'll lead you down a path<em>

_there'll be tenderness in the air_

_she'll let you come just far enough_

_so you know she's really there_

_she'll look at you and smile_

_and her eyes will say – she's got a secret garden_

_where everything you want_

_where everything you need_

_will always stay a million miles away..._

Bruce Springsteen – Secret Garden


	8. stay safe tonight

****************prompt 08: deeper****************

Word count: 656

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><p>Number 12 Grimmauld place was just as dull and dreary as ever. Wasn't any different even when there were people around, actually. As if there was perpetual despair etched deeply into the tapestries, in every gruesome article of family heirloom, dark as their name and making her shudder as she went by. She doesn't even know why she came here in the first place.<p>

She couldn't quite remember how she had come to stand in the parlour on the first floor, poring over a stray slip of parchment, a list of items scribbled upon it. A grocery list. She recognizes the handwriting. He must have been in a good mood the day he wrote this. He even remembered the trivial things such as 'candles' and 'soap-the good kind'. She can almost imagine him going through the drawers and cupboards. The last word is written in capitals and underlined twice. Liquor. Her throat suddenly feels tight. She wonders where the hell _she_ was when he was writing this note, desperate in trying to make his imprisonment in this dreadful house even remotely bearable. They could've gone through the house together, mocking the hideous antiquary and plotting to furnish one of the rooms-the one directly opposite to the portrait of Sirius' mother-entirely in Muggle fashion just to piss the old hag off. Why was she around mainly when he was drunk or frantic or sulking in one of the rooms upstairs? The fact that she knew the answer to that question made her feel disgusted with herself.

It must be her punishment, this. Loving someone who was constantly walking away from her-into darkness, danger, into the unknown, and all she could think of day after day was whether he was even still alive. All she ever wanted anymore was to have him back from the underground. Even if he never accepted her love.

Yes, a punishment. She was sure of it.

Tears prickling her eyes, she drops to the sofa-the one he usually occupied, stretching lazily and teasing Remus who'd be right over _there_, in that overstuffed armchair by the bookshelf, trying to read. She'd be perched on a windowsill and they'd all be sipping firewhiskey, telling dirty jokes and swapping Hogwarts experiences. It was funny how everything seemed so _easy_ with Sirius around. It was when he died that things suddenly turned awkward.

"I thought the place was empty."

She recognizes his voice upon the very first syllable and suddenly, she wants to be _anywhere_ but here. Alone. With him. Stupid, actually, seeing that catching him on his own was her main objective for the past months.

"Sometimes I sleep here," he mutters again from the doorway, obviously compelled to supply an explanation.

"I didn't know. I'll leave."

"You—you don't have to," he offers quickly-a bit _too_ quickly-but she dares not to hope. Not anymore. She sits back, though, and watches him from the corner of her eye as he drags himself to the armchair and crashes into it. He's thinner and looking more worn than ever. Yet, he is here-safe, unharmed; at least tonight her mind would be rid of anguish. Instead of relived, she is surprised to feel numb, sore, her head aching dully. She feels like she could cry and digs her nails into a cushion instead.

"I'm sorry."

His voice is hoarse and muffled and she can see him without looking, hunched over in his chair, head in his hands. And, as if they are connected on another, deeper level, she knows he feels the same.

"I'm sorry too," she mutters back, a tear finally slipping on the mouldy cushion.

She is not quite conscious of what followed and can only vaguely remember someone laying her down and wrapping a blanket around her before drifting to sleep. It was, for once, deep and dreamless. The note is still on the floor where she'd dropped it last night. Remus is, once again, gone.

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><p><em>and if the darkness is to keep us apart<em>

_and if the daylight feels like it's a long way off_

_and if your glass heart should crack_

_and for a second you turn back_

_oh no, be strong..._

U2 - Walk On


	9. you're going to reap just what you sow

****************prompt 09: fragrant  
><strong>**************

Word count: 617

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><p>The first time they kissed, he told her he liked the way she smelled after a bath. That the spicy, dominant scent of her body lotion went surprisingly well with the undertones of her fruity hair conditioner. It suited her, he thought, the contrast of the fragrances.<br>She remembered that eleven days after Dumbledore's funeral. Seventeen days after his death. She didn't like recalling that day. Her conduct then, a result of suppressed frustration and sheer desperation because of everything that had happened-she was ashamed of it. She should be satisfied, actually, since it did result with Remus finally coming clean about his feelings, but somehow she wasn't. Stupid of her, really, selfish and immature, but she couldn't quite help the feeling she had forced his decision. And that was not the way she wanted things to be between them.  
>So, given the circumstances, it wasn't very hard for her to refrain from too much jubilation over her again properly functioning morphing abilities and keep her hair tones nice and boring most of the times, in all the proper hues of red and brown and blond even her mother would be proud of. They were supposed to be inconspicuous, at least Mad-Eye said so, and she had learnt long ago his advice was not to be easily disregarded. Or maybe she was becoming just as paranoid as he was. In any case, being at the scene of Dumbledore's death had put in question her position at the Ministry. Not that she really cared much anymore, the state it was in, but a steady income was definitely a perk she wasn't all too willing to give up. She was already starting to get the snub, having to do paperwork rather than being sent out in the field. Not to mention the stares and the whisperings every time she walked by. The word spread out fairly quickly-an occupational hazard of having a werewolf for a boyfriend. She didn't heed those much, she knew there'd come a time when she'll need to sort out her priorities and there was no doubt what-rather who-came in first. The downside, however, was Remus' fussiness when he'd found out she'd been degraded at work. That was something she had a little more trouble dealing with. And of course, there was Bellatrix Lestrange, dear Auntie Bella whose own priorities had her very high on the 'to hack off' list. It was a lot to deal with but if only she knew, if only she could be completely sure she could count on his unconditional love and support-hell itself would be a walk in the park! She had no reason to doubt him, and yet...<br>Stepping out of the bathroom, it was no longer an empty room that welcomed her. He was seated on the sofa, browsing through a book she had been reading earlier. There was something in his eyes when he looked up-something present every time he looked at her. Something she liked to think was there only for her. He knew something was wrong. He had a knack for sensing tension, reading moods. But the thing she admired the most about him, was knowing not to nag with overly compassionate questions. He knew she'd confide in him on her own. She always did. Eventually.  
>Wordlessly, he placed an arm around her shoulders and pulled her towards him. She could feel his cheek brushing the nape of her neck and the tickle of his breath as he inhaled deeply. Burying her face in his shoulder, she settled into his embrace and closed her eyes. Nothing was right with the world. Perhaps it never will be anymore. But for the time being, she could pretend.<p>

* * *

><p><em>just a perfect day<em>  
><em>you made me forget myself<em>  
><em>I thought I was someone else<em>  
><em>someone good<em>

Lou Reed - Perfect Day


	10. and now I'm left eternally to burn

****************prompt 10: pieces****************

Word count: 511

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><p>There was a lingering graveness in her eyes now. He hated it. Hated how it made him hate himself even more. Because it was him who put it there. Not him the lycanthrope (<em>that would have actually made it easier to bear, as morbid as it sounds<em>), but him the _man_. The man he was so desperately trying to be for as long as he could remember.  
>She would smile more often now, of course. Laugh as easily as she used to, her eyes alight with that spunky twinkle they once (<em>so long ago, it seemed<em>) held at all times. One had to be rather attuned to her to notice certain subtleties that weren't there before. Such as how prominent her cheekbones were because she had lost far more weight over the course of the past year than it was healthy. Or how she'd sometimes look at him with something very much like reserve, as if weighing his words and, his chest so uncomfortably tight with remorse and heartache and _guilt_, he knew she was Tonks the Auror now, hard eyes and constant vigilance, and it would take a breath or two longer than usual for his Dora to emerge again, with one of those falsely bright smiles he imagined meant something along the lines of _'Sorry Remus, y'know how it is. Once bitten, twice shy.'_  
>No pun intended, of course.<br>When she'd emerge from the bathroom with a scowl, he knew it was because it took her at least three (_or four or five or ten_) tries to morph her nose smaller or eyes clearer or hair more acceptable and that it still hadn't turned out exactly the way she wanted it to. He knew it was his fault when she'd hug him too tightly, arms wound in a vice grip, nails leaving marks on his forearms and neck and shoulder blades, as if she was in constant fear he'll simply vanish if she didn't hold on tight enough. And when she'd wake up with a start, groping in near desperation at his side of the bed and appearing as if she'd only managed a proper breath once she's seen him in the doorway, a scent of freshly made coffee drifting through the room, he'd startle himself with a thought that the werewolf may actually be a better person (_or creature or being or whatever_) than the man. And it rips and tears at his insides because one should cherish and protect those he loves, not destroy them (_but does it count for something that he thought he was protecting her?_).  
>Even so, she still seems to love him just the same, and it amazes him, just as it was amazing he had somehow gained her love in the first place. <em>Underestimating her, just like he always did.<em>  
>Though, some things, certain aspects of their relationship (<em>little insignificant ones, really, such as trust and understanding and respect<em>), are still broken beyond repair. Much like he himself is. He just never figured he'd be bringing someone else to pieces with him.

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><p><em>all I feel crawls across my skin<br>breaking through, slowly sinking in  
>and I can't find what you're looking for<br>nothing's left, nothing's left at all  
>nothing's left...<br>_Newton Faulkner – Straight Towards the Sun

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><p><strong>AN - And that's all folks. Thanks for reading! And, of course, as always, I would love to hear your thoughts... :)**

**Hugs,**

**~ButterflyRogue**


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